Cake
by FastIce
Summary: Sherlock hates being bored. He loves to experiment. Lastly, as Mycroft put it: He does love to grandstand. At eight years old, Sherlock Holmes was already showing signs of his rather eccentric personality - much to his family's amusement and chagrin.
1. Dinner Parties, an experiment

**Do not own. But now, a short rant. WHY, oh WHY are there so many people on this fandom saying "I don't really get the ratings, they aren't really explained, so I'll just rate this whatever."? They **_**are**_** explained. They lay them out for you! Would you be comfortable with the age group that corresponds with each rating reading your fic? It's not difficult, guys. I've seen fanfictions on here that have clearly been written by an eleven year old, and the contents are frankly rubbish, but it's been rated correctly. Anyway, I'm sorry about that. And on we go.**

The year was nineteen eighty six. Sherlock Holmes, aged eight, crashed through the door, dropped his blazer at the foot of the staircase, plonked himself onto the sofa, and began to ferret around in his bag. He pulled out a small orange book, along with what seemed to be a homework planner. The small boy flicked through them both before unceremoniously hurling them to the floor. He sighed. He stretched. He lounged on the couch for all of seven seconds before wriggling onto his front. He turned onto his side. He eventually found himself lying on his back. Eventually, he spat the inevitable word from his lips.

"Bored." He got up, and morosely wandered into the kitchen. He hoisted himself up onto a surface next to the sink, where his brother, aged fifteen, was furiously scrubbing at dishes in preparation for a dinner party later that evening. "Mycroft?" Sherlock said, feet swinging idly and hitting the cupboard behind him. Mycroft did not look up.

"Sherlock. Stop kicking the cupboard, you'll leave marks all over it. What?"

"Why are we having a dinner party this evening?"

"Because some important people are back in town. It's good to socialise, you know."

"Ah. Mycroft?"

"_What,_ Sherlock?"

"Why is it good to socialise?"

"Because making connections leads you to higher places in life."

"Oh, right." There was silence, for a time, as Sherlock pondered upon his brother's words, before an impish grin spread over his face.

"Mycroft? Will _Julia_ be coming to the party?"

"How do you know about – Never mind. I don't want to know. _Sherlock_, you really are being tiresome." Sherlock sighed.

"But I'm so _b-o-o-o-o-o-ored_." He whined, petulantly.

"Only boring people are bored. Go and do your homework, or play in the garden, or visit Mrs. Arbiton. I think there's a basket of fruit for her somewhere."

"Boring. Boring. Nasty old bat, why would I take her any kind of gift?"

"Because she was very good to us the other day. Go and find something to do!" Sherlock's head tilted.

"Mrs. Arbiton was good to us? How?"

"She made us a cake. See?" Mycroft pointed to the cake on the high shelf. "Now go and leave me alone!" Sherlock left, eyes gleaming wickedly. Mycroft ignored them and continued washing dishes - the kitchen was quiet again. That is, until the scraping of a chair across the wooden floor interrupted the silence. Mycroft put down his cloth and looked up.

"Sherlock! Go away!"

"No."

"You're so bloody childish! Do as I – what _are_ you doing?"

""I'm going to have a slice of that delicious looking cake that Mrs. Arbiton made us. After all, you will notice that nobody else seems to have touched it. Therefore, it's fair game." The younger boy climbed onto the chair and stood on his tiptoes.

"Sherlock! You can't eat that! It's probably –"

"Poisoned? Yes. I know." Sherlock grinned, and examined the slice he had cut for himself. "But we aren't sure, are we?"

"No. No, we aren't - but that's no reason for you to eat some!"

"Too late. We're just going to have to find out." Sherlock almost skipped back through to the living room, and lay back on the sofa with his eyes closed and his hands crossed over his chest. His older brother was hot on his heels. The younger boy opened one eye and raised the eyebrow. "I'm not bored anymore, if that helps. Go away, Mycroft." Mycroft rolled his eyes and growled, quietly, then left, dishes still not done.

Sherlock was still very much alive when Mrs. Holmes arrived home a few hours later. She swept into the living room, and in the manner of harassed, long suffering mothers everywhere, began to fuss.

"Oh for goodness sake, Sherlock, hang this blazer up. I'm always telling you to. When was the last time you had a hair cut? I'll book you in for one later. And pick these books up, honestly, you need to treat your schoolbooks with some care and respect, I'm _not_ paying the fine if you ruin them again... Sherlock, what _are_ you doing?"

"He's waiting to die. Hullo, Mother."

"Oh, yes? Mycroft, darling, how was school?"

"School was fine. The dishes are done."

"Ah, thank you. Well – Go upstairs and change! The guests will be arriving in half an hour and I have so much to do!"

"Yes, Mother." From the sofa, Sherlock again opened an eye.

"I really _am_ going to die, you know." His mother nodded absentmindedly, hanging her coat up and looking for the ironing board.

"I'm sure you are dear, but would you mind doing it _up_stairs? It would make rather a bad impression to have a dead son on the sofa, yes? I'll make a cheese sandwich for you and bring it up later."

"I don't like the cheese we've got at the moment; it tastes of rotten milk mixed with gravy granules. Are you really listening to a word I'm saying?"

"M-hm. Have you picked your blazer and books up yet?"

"No, but -!"

"Well, do it now and go upstairs and die, there's a good boy."

"But-!"

"_Now,_ Sherlock." Sherlock shuffled off upstairs, grumbling quietly to himself. He was greeted by his father in the hallway, coming home from work with five minutes to spare before the guests were due to arrive.

"Ah! Hello, Sherlock. Have you had a good day?"

"I'm not going to last the night and nobody cares!" Sherlock wailed.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." Mr. Holmes walked through to the living room where he was handed a freshly ironed pair of trousers by his wife. He nodded to his eldest son, who was sat on the couch, wearing a similar suit. He turned again to his wife. She smiled at him.

"Hallo dear. Good day?" She said.

"Yes, thank you. Sherlock tells me he's going to die. Again."

"Ah yes, there's a slice of cake missing. Mycroft tells me he was bored."

"Oh? The cake Mrs. Arbiton made us?"

"Yes. HE'LL PROBABLY LAST THE PARTY BEFORE THE RETCHING STARTS." This last bit was said extra loudly so Sherlock, who was no doubt sulking in his room upstairs, would hear.

Sounds which sounded suspiciously like "Nobody cares about me..." could just be heard from upstairs.

Mr. Holmes sighed. Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes. Mycroft checked his nails for imperfections, and the doorbell rang. The parents looked at one another. Mr. Holmes smiled and said

"I do hope you were right about him lasting the party. We really can't have him wrecking another one."

**Arrrgghhh. Arrrgghhh. Too much dialogue. But then again, that's what families do, they talk – and I can't see another way of doing this. Ah well. Your thoughts, if you please.**


	2. Wedding, with deductions

**Well, I was asked to continue this... three times, once per review, so, y'know, I thought I'd better. I honestly tried to continue the dinner party, but it wasn't working. Suffice to say that it was royally wrecked by Sherlock in an uncharacteristic fit of well-meaningness and he spent quite some time in the doghouse for it. And on we go!**

"Mummy?" Sherlock sat in the back of the car, fidgeting. Mycroft sat next to him, straight backed and proper. Mrs. Holmes sat in the front seat, dressed to the nines, and Mr. Holmes was driving.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Why are we going to Mr Flocke's wedding?" His mother rolled her eyes.

"You mean apart from the other reasons I've given you the last _six_ times you've asked this question?"

"Yes!" Mrs. Holmes sighed.

"Because if we don't go, people will wonder _why not. _It'll look like we're uncaring, and that would never do."

"But we don't even _like _Mr Flocke!

"_Nevertheless_." Mycroft said. Just "Nevertheless", which Sherlock couldn't dispute because there was nothing there to question – so he went with the standard reply given by all kids in similar situations.

"That's not a proper answer!" Mr. Holmes decided that he was going to change the subject before it escalated into a full blown row.

"And we all know how we're going to behave at the wedding, _don't we?" _He said, keeping his eyes on the road. Sherlock beamed and said, reciting happily:

"No poison, no scaring people, and NO experiments." Sherlock began staring out the window. "Mycroft?" His brother followed his gaze.

"Be quiet, Sherlock."

...

"Sherlock! _Sherlock!_"

"Yes, mum?" Sherlock grinned.

"For goodness sake, don't _stare_ like that!"

"Why not?" Mrs. Holmes gritted her teeth and sighed silently. She loved her son, she really did, but what on earth had she done to deserve Sherlock, who just didn't seem to understand how to behave in the company of other people?

"Because the poor woman will think you've seen something wrong with her!"

"She won't, because she can't see me, I'm behind her, and anyway,-"

"Be quiet Sherlock, it's time for the "I do"s."

...

"Sherlock, you're _still_ staring at poor Mrs. Locke."

"Yes."

"Why?" Sherlock half turned his head to look at his mother.

"Because I need to be sure." Mrs. Holmes smelled a rat.

"Sherlock. Do you remember what we agreed?"

"Yup!"

"Stick to it. Have you seen Mycroft?"

"He's dancing with _Freya_." Mrs. Holmes tilted her head.

"I thought he liked Julia?"

"Ah, but Julia's had her eye on Tony for a while, so, eventually, Mycroft just gave up." His mother giggled.

"You pay too much attention to your brother's love life. Now, go and find someone else to torment, I think I need some peace and quiet." Sherlock ran off. The seemingly oblivious Mr. Holmes looked up.

"So Mycroft likes Freya now?"

"Yes dear, we've just been through all that. How's the crossword coming along?"

"Nicely, thank you. Hmmmm... is good in move to Arab countries, nine letters."

"Emigrates. Oh god."

"What?"

"I just told Sherlock to go and find someone to torment. I'll be back in a second."

The new Mrs. Locke had really been having a very good day. She had married the man she loved and she really was sure, now, that they were going to last. Her mother could stop nagging and she could settle down and start a family. Yes, it had been a very good day – until the strange child had come up to her and started talking.

"Mrs. Locke?"

"Hmmm? That's me now, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. Did you know your husband was having an affair with your sister?"

"What? No he's not!" The small boy had looked at her with a look which most resembled a half hearted attempt at pity.

"I'll think you'll find he is. The way he looks at her out of the corner of his eye, even when referring to you. The traces of face powder clinging to his fingertips are slightly too pale to be yours. They don't belong to a member of his family; they're all too tanned, but your _sister's..._ matches exactly. There's too much there for it to have been an accidental brush, he's actually held her face in his palms, plus the fact that-"

"_Sherlock."_ Sherlock whipped his head around.

"Yes, Mycroft?"

"Leave the poor woman alone. I'm so sorry, don't listen to a word he says. I'm afraid my brother is a little... paranoid." Mrs. Locke, who had been looking a little frightened, smiled slightly at that.

"I completely understand, I have a nephew about the same age."

"All the same, I am really sorry." Mycroft led his brother away firmly by the shoulders. "You can't go around telling people things like that, Sherlock."

"Why not? I was saving her some time; they are going to break up eventually, whether there was an affair, which there was, or whether there wasn't."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I did. See the way she rolled her eyes, just quickly, whenever he was talking? When she asked for credit – when she said she was a very hardworking homemaker – he didn't give it, just said she was going to have to work a lot harder. Don't tell me you didn't notice."

"Of course I noticed!, Sherlock, that doesn't necessarily mean that they're ready to divorce as soon as the reception's over!" They had reached the table by now, and Mr. Holmes was looking up from the newspaper he had bought with him, but his wife was already two steps ahead. She took one look at her son's faces, before deciding

"I think it's time we went home."

The Lockes divorced five years later.

**Oooohhhhh…. That was mean of Sherlock, but those are real ways of telling if a couple is likely to stay together. Anyway, thanks again for reading and I might well do a chapter three if the mood takes me. We shall see.**


	3. The Hospital, turned upside down

**Here it is, chapter three. This is going to be a series; I'm having too much fun to stop. A short note to those reviewers who said "I'm glad he's not my son" and "you've got mother's mannerisms down to the T" – they're all based loosely off of my family. Don't fret though, my little brother is neither that barking mad nor a genius, so all is well.**

"I'm not wearing it." Sherlock Holmes looked at the fabric in his father's hands.

"Sherlock, you have to. It's the first day back at school; you could at least _try_ to look presentable."

"Look presentable. Looking presentable's boring." Mr Holmes felt his fingers curling, and uncurled them again.

"_Sherlock. Put the ruddy tie on._"

"Don't want to."

"Why not?" His younger son tutted and rolled his eyes, as if he was fed up with the world being so _slow_.

"Because someone might strangle me with it."

"Sherlock, nobody is going to strangle you at school."

"You don't know that! Anyway, they _might_." Mr. Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"Is there a reason anybody would want to strangle you?"

"Not any particular reason. But the risk still stands. Dad, if-"

"Sherlock... the thing is, about life, is that it's all about weighing up the risks and the benefits." Sherlock thought for a few seconds.

"The risk: I get strangled and probably die, the benefit: I avoid getting told off slightly by a teacher. Hmmm... what do you think, dad?" Mr. Holmes gritted his teeth.

"Sherlock, you really won't get strangled, and you really don't want _another _detention, do you?"

"I could die..."

"Well, it had to happen sometime or another." Mrs. Holmes, yawning, wandered into the sitting room clutching a cup of coffee.

"Muuuuuummmmmmmyyyyyyyy... is that what you really think?" Sherlock looked for all the world as if he were about to burst into tears, but Mrs. Holmes was so used to her son's ways of playing people like that dratted violin of his (or the "vile din" as it was now known amongst family members) that she simply ignored it.

"Yup. MYCROFT! IT'S HALF PAST SEVEN, YOU'RE GOING TO MISS YOUR BUS!" Actually, speaking of that violin... "Sherlock, have you got your violin? I'M NOT HEARING MUCH MOVEMENT UP THERE!"

"'M coming, 'm coming..." Could be just heard from the upstairs landing. Sherlock was looking a little uneasy.

"Um... I don't need my violin _today_, do I?"

"Yes, you do, because it's registering day and... _Sherlock._ What have you done to the violin?" The youngest Holmes looked at the floor.

"I might have... accidentally..." Mrs. Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"Might have accidentally _what_, Sherlock?"

"Dropped it down a well..."

"You _WHAT!"_

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to...!"

"I think you did." This really wasn't Sherlock's morning. His mother was cross, his father was cross, and his brother was not even out of bed yet. "Was this one of your experiments?"

"I got it out again. Eventually. But one of the strings is broken."

"Oh! Oh, right. I think they can fix that. Just one of the strings?"

"Yes, Mummy. Just one of the strings."

"Thank god for that. You have no _idea_ how cross I am with you right now, Sherlock Jeffren Holmes."

"No, Mummy."

"I'll punish you later. MYCROFT!"

"I'm here, I'm here... morning, mum."

"Good morning, darling. There's cereal on the table for you."

"You like Mycroft more than me."

"Don't start, Sherlock. Just don't start. Now put that tie on."

...

When Mr. Holmes got through the door that evening, the first thing he heard was a clattering of pots and pans, followed by a "...can't believe anyone could be that _useless_... what were you _thinking?_ I don't know why I bother, really, I don't. What must Mrs. Gulsh think of us now?" Of course, Mr. Holmes thought. With Mycroft away at a chess tournament, there was no one to keep the peace between his wife and youngest son.

"I don't know, Mummy."

"You're going to apologise _tomorrow_, aren't you?"

"Yes, Mummy."

"And you aren't lying to me, are you?"

"No Mummy."

"Good. Hello, honey. There's file on the table, go and put it on the shelf for me, would you?"

"Yes, dear." Mr. Holmes went to go and find the file. The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Mrs. Holmes?"

"Yes, that's me."

"Your son's had an accident, we're going to have to take him to A&E."

"Excuse me?"

"If you could come down, just to fill in a few forms." _Click._ The line went dead.

"Sherlock! With me! We're going to the hospital!"

...

"Why didn't you leave me home with Dad?"

"Because he'll have found now that he's got some pretty serious filing to do. He doesn't want you distracting him." Sherlock nodded, glad that he hadn't annoyed his mother quite enough for her to send him to do it. They sat in silence for a few moments, waiting for the traffic lights to change.

"Why are we going to the hospital?"

"Because Mycroft's hurt himself." Sherlock grinned, holding back a laugh.

"Playing _chess_?"

"Yes, dear, playing chess. No, I don't know how." Sherlock snickered to himself. "Don't laugh, honey, it could happen to anyone."

"Do you think there's going to be a lot of blood?"

"No, dear. I'm sure he's just bumped his head, or some other minor thing." Sherlock's eyes brightened at this thought. His mother was beginning to worry about her son's mental health when he grinned and said

"So he'll be an amnesiac?"

"No, Sherlock. Be quiet." Sherlock shut his mouth.

...

"Hello, Gabriella. Are you going to use that on my brother?" Gabriella, the nurse, had been holding a small reflex testing mallet in her hands.

"Hmmm? No, Sherlock ,I don't think so."

"You might need to bash his head back into shape."

"I don't think I need to. You see, Sherlock, this hammer is for –"

"I don't want to know. It's probably rather dull." Gabriella sighed. She knew Sherlock well by now, all the A&E staff at the Royal Alexander did. He would come in, often with an injury he had caused himself while doing something foolish, or at least nonsensical, and turn the entire department upside down. Doctors had been known to work out the times he was most often in and make sure that they didn't have that shift. They dreaded him. Gabriella closed her eyes, counted to ten, took a few deep breaths and when she opened them again, Sherlock was gone.

...

Sherlock tore down the corridors, took a left here, a third there, and eventually ended up in a bit of the hospital he didn't recognise. There was a table in the middle of the room, with a person bending over it. Just the one, though, and no machines save for the computer.

Not the operating theatre then. This must be the morgue.

"Hello?" He said, quietly wandering up to the table.

"Ah!" The figure turned around. "Hey! Get out, you aren't supposed to be here!" Sherlock fixed him with a blank stare. "Where are your parents?" Ah, at last. A question Sherlock had an answer for. He allowed the tears to well up into his eyes, hoping that the morgue attendant would get the hint.

"Oh. Oh, right. I'm sorry." Sherlock looked at the body on the table. "What happened to her?"

"She was bought in choking. Something about accidentally swallowed a pen lid, I think. We did all we could, but..."

"She didn't swallow that pen lid by accident. It was force fed to her."

"What? Don't be silly."

"Look, her toenails are perfect. Don't you think that the fingernails should be too? But they aren't, they're torn and jagged. She put up some kind of fight. New coat – she's had it less than two days - so why is it already so dusty on the back? She was pushed to the floor. Traces of blood on her teeth, which is unusual - unless she's a vampire, which I doubt, she bit someone recently – rather hard. Someone she desperately needed to bite and judging from position of the blood, whatever it was that she bit was already in her mouth. She's not been dead long, and on the way in here I saw a man with plasters covering his fingers as well as blood under his fingernails. He looked like someone who's just been told somebody close to them might have died, plus he had a similar wedding ring on to what she's got – part of a matching set."The morgue attendant gaped at him.

"But how..."

"_SHERLOCK!"_ Mrs. Holmes burst in with her elder son, whose arm was in a cast. "Just where have you been! We've been looking all over, I've been worried _sick..._" She looked at the morgue attendant. "I'm so sorry, I hope my son hasn't been bothering you." She said, dragging Sherlock away.

**Poor Mrs. Holmes. The poor woman deals with so much from her youngest son, I'm not sure I could stand it. Ideas please? I was thinking a birthday party for the next chapter.**


	4. A Birthday Party, not quite ruined

**TA-DAAAA!**

"He's not going!" It was ten o' clock in the evening, Mrs. Holmes had had a long day and what she did not need was Sherlock's latest drama. Mr. Holmes looked at his wife.

"Why not?"

"Do you _remember _what happened last time? I couldn't show my face for weeks! And can you imagine? He's gotten craftier since the last party he went to!"

"Oh, I don't know. I think it might be good for him to see what... well,_ normal_ children do with their weekends."

"I still don't think we should let him go. The... normal children, as you put it, probably have parents who would like them to come home _un_traumatised."

"Tell you what. If we let him go, I'll do all the vacuuming for a month if he ruins it."

"Done."

...

"How much, and who was betting which way?" Sherlock asked.

"Ah... you don't need to know that." Said Mrs. Holmes, unhooking her coat and putting it on. Sherlock pouted.

"I'd like to."

"Well, I'm not going to tell you. Now, get in the car."

"Where are we going?"

"Into town. We need to find a present for Josh, remember?" Sherlock thought for a moment, opened his mouth, shut it again, raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth a second time, and eventually said

"Why?"

"Well, I suppose as a sort of "thank you", really."

"Oh. I still don't get it. I don't particularly want to go to his party, you're making me. Why am I thanking him?"

"It's going to have to be a really big thank you." Mrs. Holmes muttered under her breath.

"Sorry?"

"Never mind."

I love you too, Mummy."

...

"Josh won't like that." Sherlock nodded at the toy gun his mother was looking at. "He doesn't like violent games."

"What a nice little boy." Mrs Holes said, glaring pointedly at Sherlock, who was not above punching across the jaw if the occasion called for it, which often happened - this had caused Mrs. Holmes more than one parents evening discussing her son's "difficult behaviour".

"I'm not sure that's quite it..." Sherlock said, examining his nails.

"Well, whatever "it" is, Sherlock, go and find him something else. Now!" Sherlock sighed and sloped off towards art supplies.

...

Sherlock looked up from his latest "experiment" – which seemed to involve a large jar of mould – at his father, who was pointing to his watch.

"Time to go."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes, Sherlock, you do. You are the strangest child I've ever met; I don't think _anyone _else would rather look at a jar of mould than go to a party."

"Yes, well..." Sherlock shook his head. "Never mind, I'm sure you know best." Mr. Holmes nodded in approval.

"I do indeed. Hurry up."

...

Sherlock arrived at the party, scrubbed to within an inch of his life and looking none too pleased about it. He knocked on the door, present (a paint box) in hand, and silently hoped that his mother had got the right house. He waited, tapping his foot, fidgeting with the card and beginning to feel extremely almost _bored_. Mercifully, the door opened just before he realised, and Josh's mother practically leapt on him.

"Sherlock! You came! It was so nice of you to come, Josh will be _so _glad to see glad to see you! You're the first to arrive; the others should be along in a minute... please, have a seat." Sherlock sat, examining his nails and wondering just how long it would take his hostess to realise that no-one else would be turning up to her son's party. He looked around the living room – a few books, a bottle of nail polish, a candle – strawberry, by the smell of it – and a letter on the mantelpiece. Sherlock, reading the letter, saw nothing special, it seemed to be a letter from Josh's grandmother, who was visiting Cornwall. There was nothing really to deduce, apart from the fact that Josh's mum saw the room as very much her own. He had been about to conduct a deeper investigation when Josh came into the room, looking slightly surprised.

"Hello, Sherlock." Sherlock nodded.

"Hello Josh. Nice party?" Josh looked at him, scowling.

"What do you think? Would you like anything to drink?"

"A coke would be nice. What did you get for your birthday?" Josh thought for a moment.

"I got a book... a few art supplies... a cricket bat..." Sherlock brightened.

"A cricket bat?" Josh sighed.

"Don't get too excited, I can't play." he said, morosely. Sherlock grinned.

"Play? You mean cricket? Oh no Josh, I wasn't thinking _cricket..._"

...

The party was over. Mrs. Holmes drove the car a little unsteadily to the designated pick up point, while the radio blared in her ear. She was listening to the local news, in case reports of fires, explosions, police chasing after an eight year old boy, or other such dreadful things flashed up. Mercifully, they didn't. She was beginning, almost, to think that the party might have gone considerably better than last time. She pulled into the drive, which was free of trifle, screaming kids and fire engines, while musing that although she'd have to do the vacuuming for the next month, really this was a very good day. Getting out, she knocked on the door, sure that she was going to be greeted by a very, very distressed woman – so when the door opened and Mrs. Rogan, Josh's mother, all but threw her arms around her she was very surprised.

"Thank you _so much_ for saying Sherlock could come – I know Josh hasn't ever got on well with the people in his class or their parents, but I never imagined that _this _would happen...!" Unsure of what exactly was going on, Mrs. Holmes nodded slightly and followed the woman into the garden where an extraordinary sight met her eyes – for there, playing and laughing like... well, like a normal child – was her son, along with Josh and a cricket bat. Wait – Sherlock had a cricket bat? She was just about to go to pull him away when Mrs. Rogan stopped her. "No," she said. "Let them play – Josh doesn't talk to other people much – and it'll be good for Sherlock. Come inside and have some tea." Mrs. Holmes took another look at the two boys.

"I'd love to, but... that's not your toaster, is it?" Mrs. Rogan took a closer look at what Josh and Sherlock were actually doing.

"No. That's _next door's _toaster. Josh!"

"_SHERLOCK!"_

**That took a really long time – I had to think so hard about where this one was going. Ideas, guys. Please.**


	5. Holidays, very stressful things

**Ok, here we go. I watched Brai****niac with my brother yesterday, so no prizes for guessing where this idea came from. Yes, I am continuing! I have received some prompts (FAB) and will be using the ideas in later chapters. There seems to have been a surge of readers lately – has the show moved across the pond?**

"Are we there yet?" Sherlock had his feet propped up on the headrest of the seat in front of him, much to his father's discomfort; Mycroft sat next to his brother. Mrs. Holmes was driving. Mr. Holmes sighed, and, rubbing the back of his sore, kicked neck, turned to Sherlock.

"Could you sit properly? We're not much further than we were when you asked two minutes ago. Did you read your magazine?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Do you honestly think I'd read that rubbish?" Mrs. Holmes gritted her teeth.

"You were perfectly fine with it last time!" Her youngest son tutted and rolled his eyes.

"That was three weeks ago, I was a considerably different person." Both parents snorted. Sherlock looked affronted. "What?" He said, trying to regain some of his (non-existent) dignity. Mr. Holmes shook his head.

"You know Sherlock, I don't think you'll ever change. Now read your magazine." He said, looking at the map. "Adele, dear? I think we should have taken that last exit."

"I told you so."

"No you didn't. Read your magazine."

...

Mike Bamfield, night shift at the sign in centre for the Country Common Caravanning Centre, Devon, was just settling down for a cup of tea when the Holmes family arrived, two hours later than expected. Mike was used to families like this one, but the conversation seemed a little off, even for an _extremely_ stressed out mother.

"I didn't _mean_ to!"

"I'm sure you did. That poor woman will never be able to look at cats in the same way again, I hope you're satisfied."

"Yup, I've definitely done her a favour. Nasty things, why would anyone want that many?"

"Because, Sherlock, she was a lonely old woman, and some people like to have company."

"She wasn't that lonely, she had all those cats!"

The poor woman, who looked extremely tired, let out a sigh of exasperation. The man, sat in to the passenger's seat, gave Mike that look men often exchange – the one that means "women, eh?" Mike sympathised almost completely, thinking of his wife and twins at home.

"Holmes Family?" The man, presumably Mr. Holmes, said.

"I'm really sorry we're late, we just got a little delayed on a comfort stop, _didn't we,_ Sherlock?"

"Yes, Mum." Mike heard the tone of sarcasm in the boy's voice and was very glad to hear the other boy speak up.

"Mummy, don't trouble the man anymore. I'm sorry; we'd better stop bothering you. My father's passport." The passport was handed to Mike and he nodded, handing the man a key.

"Number 283 – you want Strawberry, over to the left, carry straight on, then turn right." He said. Mother nodded her thanks and the car set off. He picked up his tea and his paper, and got back down to the serious business of the crossword.

...

"Go to bed, Sherlock." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"But Mycroft! I'm not even tired!" Whined Sherlock, his head hanging, upside down, from the edge of the bed and looking his brother straight in the eye. Mycroft fixed his brother with a calm, steady gaze, before saying, perfectly levelly, with not a hint of threat whatsoever:

"I think you are. In any case, _I'm_ rather tired, so you might find it to be within your best interests to go to sleep. Now."

Sherlock turned a somersault. There was loud thump, followed by quiet, muffled complaining. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, who were sat in the living room, exchanged glances.

"Do you think we should do something about that?" Mrs. Holmes asked her husband, wearily.

"No. I'm going to bed." Said Mr. Holmes, rising from the couch and heading towards the bedroom. His wife nodded.

"Good idea. I'm shattered. Goodnight, dear." She gave him a peck on the cheek and began to rummage through the suitcase for her pyjamas.

...

When Sherlock Holmes awoke at four in the morning, the sun was just rising, and he realised that what had woken him was the birdsong. He tossed and turned in the small bed, trying to get back to sleep for a full fifteen minutes before deciding that there was nothing for it – time to get up and sort out the noise. He crawled out of bed, peeled off his pyjamas, dressed himself and slipped out the door. The grass was damp with dew and the wind made him hunch his shoulders and tuck his chin into his chest. Nevertheless, he carried on, a goal clear in his mind and a scary shine in his eyes.

...

Mrs. Holmes hammered on the door. "MYCROFT! SHERLOCK! GET UP! NOW!" She could just hear Mycroft mumbling through the door.

"Issnt Shl'ok wih you?" was what it seemed to be saying.

"No. Don't be silly Mycroft, I'm waiting."

"Mum? I'm not being silly. _Isn't_ he with you?" The voice was now tinged with worry. Mrs Holmes felt the blood drain from her face as her blood ran cold.

"No. He didn't say anything – did he?" There was a pause.

"Nothing... in particular." Mrs. Holmes's hands began to shake slightly.

"I was dreadful to him yesterday, wasn't I? Just because of what he said about that woman's cats... Oh god Mycroft, what if he's run away?" She heard her voice rise an octave as the panic climbed up her throat. Her husband laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Calm down," he said, gently. "Sherlock, infuriating as he is, is not stupid. He won't have run away and he'll bring himself back in his own time." His wife took a few deep breaths.

"You're right, I'm sure. He's probably just gone out for a... ah, that'll be him back now." Mrs Holmes fixed her hair and answered the door. "Sherlock Holmes, _where_ have... Oh! I'm sorry. _Sherlock!_ I'm sorry, has my son been bothering you?"

"Madam, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to evacuate." The man on the doorstep said, as Sherlock sauntered back into the caravan and plonked himself down in front of Mycroft's bowl of cereal.

"I'm sorry?" Mr. Holmes appeared. "Whatever for?" He said.

"We're the bomb disposal unit. We have reports of an unexploded device on this site, so if you would just leave, please?"

"As you wish. Sherlock! Mycroft! We're going to have to leave for a while. Get in the car!" The two boys wandered out of the house, and the family drove away.

"Ok Nick, let's get to it - we'd better find this bomb." The man said, pulling a metal detector out of the boot.

...

It was dark when the family drew back in.

"Will they have gone yet, do you suppose?" Mycroft said, his feet tired from the nature reserve they had visited and stomach hungry from a stolen breakfast, non-existent lunch and a tea that was yet to be cooked.

"I hope so, I'm starving!" Mr. Holmes said.

"They won't be." Sherlock said, gravely. Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes.

"I'm sure they will be, Sherlock. We've been gone _hours._"

"They aren't though." Sherlock said, as the family car rounded the final turn.

When Mr. Holmes had parked the car and the family had gotten out, the man began to talk to him.

"And just where is this bomb, exactly?" He said, tiredly. Mr. Holmes shook his head.

"I don't know. All we know is that you turned up here this morning after someone reported one."

"But I was told you discovered it!" Mr Holmes began to smell a small, furry rodent.

"Ah. May I ask just _who_ told you that?"

"Your son, mate. He said you sent him."

"No. No, I didn't. _**SHERLOCK!**_" Sherlock meekly walked towards them.

"Yes?" He said, head bowed. Mr Holmes folded his arms.

"Why did you call out the bomb disposal team when you knew for a fact there wasn't a bomb?"

"Didn't know for a fact, there migh-"

"Don't play games with me. Why?" Sherlock swallowed.

"Their cars would have scared most of the birds away, and the noise all their machines make would have scared away all the rest. Simple, really." Mr. Holmes and the bomb disposal man exchanged glances.

"That," said Mr. Holmes slowly, "has got to be the single most _stupid_ thing you have ever done, Sherlock. Get inside, and don't expect to come out of your room until the day after tomorrow."

"But dad..."

"No buts, Sherlock Jeffren. _Now."_

**Well, that was weird. There we go. Favourite chapters? Lines? Things you'd like to see? Improvements that need to be made? Ears pegged back and listening!**


	6. Children at work, bad ideas

**OK, this one is mainly based off various prompts. I think you're all fabulous, and anyone who writes on here knows how nice it is to get reviews. So thank you.**

The sun beamed down onto the large garden, and the tea was hotter still. Mr. Holmes sat in silence, a coffee by his side, while his wife, next to him, giggled with Georgia, his boss's. _Frankly_, he thought, lazily, _I'd rather be doing something more interesting. Like getting on with that book._ He settled for watching the world go by, occasionally analysing the other guests. The woman pouring the tea was recently married, just back from her honeymoon. The man reading the newspaper's... mother, he thought, or maybe sister, had just died. Little things, and certainly things he didn't like to ask about. His thoughts were interrupted, however, by a wail. Recognizing the voice as that of Poppy, his friend Emma's middle child, he looked over. There was Sherlock, cricket bat in hand, the ball laying a fair way behind Poppy, who seemed to be crying now more out of shock than anything else. Mycroft was already rising when Mr. Holmes stopped him. Emma's husband, Richard, was on his way over too. He didn't look angry, and he calmly picked Emma up off the ground. Mr. Holmes was about to start shouting when Richard shook his head.

"Don't worry Pete; he didn't hit her or anything. She's just had a bit of a shock, is all." Mr. Holmes nodded.

"Ok. Sherlock, why did you send the ball back to her? She's bowling, and it's not as if she can't catch either." Sherlock tilted his head.

"And?" He said, unable to see the line of logic. Mr Holmes sighed; how his son could be eight years old, attending a private school and still not know how to play cricket was beyond him.

"She'll get you out if she catches it. The idea is to make it hard to get, savvy?" Sherlock grinned, and chuckled.

"Ok. Are you alright, Poppy? Let's begin." Poppy threw the ball, with an amazingly powerful bowl for a seven year old girl wearing such a lacy dress. What was more amazing however, was the power with which Sherlock whacked it. All four watched the glass chime to the floor from the small window. Richard and Pete exchanged glances, both faces saying quite plainly: Oh... My... God. What are we going to do? The two had almost formed a course of action when they realised that Sherlock and Poppy had already run off, presumably to apologize. Or, Mr. Holmes guessed, Poppy had run off to apologise, Sherlock in tow, presumably being dragged by the wrist. Simultaneously, the two men went from standing still to running full pelt to find their children.

They eventually found a nervous looking Poppy nervously explaining to Mr. Holmes's boss, David, how his bathroom window came to be a few shards of glass on his bathroom floor.

"So, it wasn't really anyone's fault, but Sherlock didn't know his own strength..."

"...and as a result of that you now have a mountain of glass on your bathroom floor. And a new cricket ball. Sorry." Sherlock finished, possibly telling the biggest lie since the disastrous holiday the family had come back from two weeks ago. Pete cringed, waiting for his son to be soundly told off, but was even more upset to hear what his boss said next:

"I see. Sherlock, is your father around?" Without looking, Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

"No doubt. He'll be along to talk to you in a minute." Sure enough, Mr. Holmes was by his son's side, ready to receive a serious talking to from his boss, so was pleasantly (given the circumstances) surprised by what came next.

"Listen, Pete, I've been thinking, and seeing your son reminded me. How does a "bring your child to work day" sound?" Mr. Holmes, relieved to still be in one piece, momentarily lost his mind.

"That sounds like a good idea, actually. Yes. Maybe so." He said, before wandering back to his table, still in a slight daze. His wife looked at him for perhaps three seconds, a look of concern on her face.

"Are you alright, dear?"

"Hmmm? Yes, fine – Oh bugger!"

...

About a week later, Mr. Holmes almost fell through the door and collapsed onto the sofa next to his youngest son, who was scribbling something on a piece of paper.

"Are you alright, Dad?" Sherlock asked, a little annoyed that his father has completely disregarded that his son's feet had been lying in the spot he'd collapsed into. "And would you mind getting off my feet?" he added, after a short pause. Obligingly but wearily, Mr. Holmes picked himself up off his son's feet for just long enough to whip them out of the way before clunking back down onto the cushions. Mycroft, who had been sprawled across the floor writing something in his Maths book, looked up at his father.

"Father? Are you alright?" he asked, a little concerned at the look of... dread, almost, on his father's face. His father stared absentmindedly at the ceiling, before his gaze snapped to his eldest son in that manner seen only in horror films. Despite himself, Mycroft recoiled slightly.

"Mycroft. Do you remember that garden party – at David's?"

"Of coursed. Sherlock broke a window." Mr. Holmes nodded, slowly.

"It seems he upset David more than we thought." Mycroft stared at his father.

"You can't mean... he didn't fire you, did he?"

"Hmmm? Oh, no, thank goodness. No, instead, he's definitely having a "bring your child to work" day."

"Well, that's not too bad, surely?" Sherlock piped up, admiring his handiwork. Mr. Holmes looked at what his son had written. He turned his head towards Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. "What?" Sherlock said, looking, unwaveringly, at his father. Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes and handed the sheet of paper back to his son.

"Mycroft?" He said, his tone not that of a question but of a command, "Would you be able to come to work with me on Thursday?" Mycroft looked across at Sherlock, who was now sat in the chair doing his science homework and pointing out (loudly) which points on the worksheet were wrong. He nodded.

...

The next Thursday, Mycroft was really wishing he'd let his father bring Sherlock to sit in the office, filing dossier after dossier. He'd not been expecting to particularly enjoy the day, but he was certain this was not the only thing to do. He slotted the last record into place, when his father walked through the door, a scared looking girl hot on his heels. Mycroft looked at her, analysing as he went. She looked to be around the same age as Sherlock, give or take a year or two. She'd just come off the train, an emergency journey by the looks of things – no time to pack lunch, she'd bought... no, been bought a sandwich. One with cheese in, and maybe pickle. She didn't have much idea what had happened to her life, but Mycroft guessed whatever it was had been less than 48 hours ago. He watched as his father drew out a chair, as the small girl sank into it gratefully. Mr Holmes turned to Mycroft.

"Mycroft, this is Sophie – could you look after her? Be careful, she's had a rough two days. We're going to have to completely relocate her, you would not _believe_..." Mycroft took another look at the girl, with her ashen face and red hands. He nodded. "Thanks." Said his father, smiling at the girl. "Ok sweetie, I'm David, I'm a social worker, and this is my son, Mycroft. He's going to be looking after you for a few minutes while I go and get some forms. Does that sound alright?"

"That'll be fine, thank you." The girl turned to Mycroft. "Nice to meet you." She extended a limp hand. He took it and shook, gently. Mr. Holmes turned briefly to Mycroft.

"She's going to need a new name. Help her start thinking, will you?" he said, quietly, before leaving, Mycroft staring after him.

"Did you hear that?" He said, a little uneasy at being left with the small girl. Images of his brother's deeds while left under his care flashed through his mind – burning pans, tumbling mirrors... his thoughts were interrupted by her reply - he noticed she was nodding. Well, she nodded. Once. Mycroft waited for more, but Sophie stayed resolutely silent, eyes fixed on the floor. He sighed. "Any names spring to mind?" he said, desperately. Still, she said nothing. He desperately cast around for a name – anything that might spring a reaction. "Zoe? Hannah? Rose? Bella? Annie? Charlotte? _Fredericka, _for goodness sakes?" Sophie looked at him, a bemused look on her face, before giggling. She stifled it quickly, but it was there nonetheless. Mycroft was slightly indignant. "What's wrong with Fredericka? I was going to be called that if I had been a girl." He said, to get in return a mere stare from the girl, which he returned. "Well, you try! It's not easy, this coming up with names stuff!" Sophie paused for a second.

"Well..." she said, not entirely sure of herself, stumbling slightly over the one word.

"Yes?" Mycroft said, frantically glad of the suggestion.

"I like... Andrea." Sophie said hesitantly. He thought about it.

"Andrea works. It's nice, actually. It suits you. Fine. Andrea it is."

**She was called Andrea, wasn't she? I mean, I heard Anthea, but she's down on the character list here as Andrea so I thought I'd better go with the popular opinion... anyway, this particular chapter was a**** bit rubbish I think and it was Sherlock light and Mycroft was out of character, but I figured I'd better try to fill some prompts. Anyway, my opinion doesn't count now, so what did you all think?**


	7. Christmas, an origin

**Just a quick seasonal thing and then... I dunno, maybe I'll put this thing on hold until Sherl****ock comes back? Next series in autumn, I think.**

Sherlock Holmes settled down under his duvet, feeling miserable. His nose was running and blocked. His feet were cold. His teeth were chattering. He was shivering. No matter how much he tried to keep himself covered, the icy wind still somehow managed to find a way under the blanket. In short, Sherlock Holmes was very uncomfortable, and his mother's arrival did not improve his mood.

"Sherlock! Are you dressed yet? Get up, you've been lying there for a good half hour – oh for goodness _sake_, look at the state of this _room_! Is that a wet towel on the floor? Again?" Son glared at Mother, red nosed and weary eyed.

"M'm. Go'way." He said, burying his head into the pillow. He had just been settling back into the happy pink world of clouds one finds oneself in when almost asleep when Mrs. Holmes bean tickling his feet, prompting irritated shrieks from her son as he tried to withdraw his feet from her grasp. "Alright! Alright! I'll get up and freeze myself into an ice cube, if it will make you happy!" He said, exasperated as he climbed down the ladder, blanket still wrapped around himself.

"Thank you. Dad's doing sausages." She left. Sherlock looked around the room, dejectedly picked up a towel, and began to work, muttering to himself as he went. He was then interrupted again by his returning mother, who had remembered why she had come into his room in the first place. "And then get dressed, we're going Christmas shopping." The muttering began again, a little louder and more intense this time as Sherlock picked up the last shirt and rammed it into the laundry basket. He stalked out in search of breakfast.

...

"You've got forty pounds, and don't forget that you need to buy for Me, Mycroft, Dad, Aunty Nicky, Uncle Daniel, Cousin Adeline, Granny, Grandad, Grandpa... anyone else?"

"Aunty Caroline, but I don't see why I need to buy for her." His mother rolled her eyes.

"Because she's your godmother! Sherlock, she's my best friend and she's always looked after you. The least you could do is buy her a present."

"Why? She's _your _friend."

"And I will be buying something for her too. But she's your godmother and if you don't get her something, there will be _trouble_." Sherlock glared at his mother and stalked off, chin in the air and mouth thin and defiant. Mrs. Holmes exchanged a sympathetic glance with the woman standing next to her, a pram in the harassed woman's hand and a small child clinging to her skirt.

...

Sherlock strode through the crowd, grumbling and complaining. "Not fair." And "Who does she think she is?" He muttered, striding into a toddler, who promptly fell over and began screaming. The boy's grandmother glared. Sherlock gave the child a look of disgust before continuing into his favourite shop.

The shop, as usual, was almost empty, save for the man behind the till and the strange merchandise on the shelves. Glass eyes stared at Sherlock from the ceiling and a bizarre lucky cat rocked its paw back and forth with a menacing grin and ominous creaks. Sherlock smiled at the shopkeeper.

"Hello, Bert. Anything interesting?" Bert beckoned Sherlock closer, showing him something. "Wow..." Breathed Sherlock. "Is that what I think it is?" Bert nodded.

"I need you to take it. Can you do that for me?"

"Really? Yeah... Yeah, I could take that." Sherlock said, putting the item into his bag. He bought a small book for his cousin, and left, striding along to the next shop in search of something for his brother.

...

"The holly and the ivy are dancing in a ring... Mum? How does that work? Holly and Ivy have no legs so they can't dance. Emily Chisholm was out of her wits when she wrote this."

"Sherlock! I know that you know that it's just a metaphor. Stop being tiresome."

"But church is so boring!" Mrs. Holmes ground her teeth, wondering if it was unholy to shout at her son in church. "I don't know why we're here..." Sherlock continued. "It's not like we come any other day." His mother fought to stop her hands curling into fists as her son continued to nag: "Besides, it's not like we believe in God –"

"_Sherlock! Sh! _We're in _church!" _Mycroft said, interrupting his brother.

"Yes, I know that, but what I don't know is _why!_ I hate going, you hate going, Mum hates going and Dad hates the people. So why are we here?" Mrs. Holmes held up a hand to stop her elder son from answering.

"I don't hate going. And your father doesn't hate the people, don't be silly."

"He does! He said so! Said they were a bunch of snivelling do-gooders with no sense of reality." Mrs. Holmes paused for a moment.

"Well... I'm sure he didn't _mean_ it..." Mrs. Holmes rose her gaze to meet that of the vicar's.

"Mrs. Holmes, while your conversation has been interesting, I wonder if I might be allowed to continue?" He said, icily.

"Hmm...? Oh... Yes. Sorry." Said Mrs. Holmes, face fire-engine red.

...

"_SHERLOCK! _I cannot believe the amount of humiliation you put me through!"

"Sorry Mum."

"The entire congregation heard that! What must they think of us?" Sherlock looked at his feet.

"Wasn't all my fault..." He ventured, to glares from his mother.

"Just you go and sit down on that chair there, and don't say a word!" Mycroft knelt by the tree, reading the first label.

"To Pete, love Adele. Happy Christmas!" Mycroft handed the present to his father, who shook it.

"Great Expectations?" He said, opening it to reveal that it was indeed the book he'd secretly been meaning to get since August.

"But of course." His wife said, smiling as Mycroft handed her a present. "To Mummy, love Sherlock." She began to open it. "Oh, how lovel- Arrgghh!" Sherlock tried to smile winningly. "Sherlock... is this... is this... is this what it looks like?"

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like a human skull! You might have at least warned me...!"

"You said don't say a word! And yes, it is what it looks like. If you don't want it, can I have it?"

**And that, my friends, was how Sherlock gained his skull. I notice that "Andrea" has since become "Anthea" on the character list. Worth the effort to change it?**


	8. Sherlock, not to be trusted

**Like I said, I'll update sometimes. Here we go!**

"Alright everyone, this is Anja. She's new, so let's just be nice to her today, okay?" Miss Cole, teacher of class 4C, gestured towards the girl stood at the front of the class with a face as red as her hair. "Alright Anja, would you like to tell us a bit about yourself?" The girl bit her lip harder and her face became redder as she drew a small amount of blood. Covering her mouth to wipe it away and staring at the floor, the class and their teacher barely heard her contribution.

"E...Es tutmirleid...ich..." The girl, Anja, looked at the man in the corner, and said something rapidly in a language that her bored audience did not understand. He nodded, and spoke to the teacher.

"Oh! Ok then, I understand. Anja, if you'd just take a seat next... to..." She desperately searched the tables for a spare seat, and didn't find one.

Well.

She did – it was just one of a pair, with a small dark haired boy sat at the one next to it.

"Herman, if you could just move to that table there, then Anja can have your space."

"Nuh-uh. I ain't sitting next to Sherlock, 'es a bloody maniac."

"Herman! Don't you dare use that kind of language! I'll see you in at breaktime, understand?"

"'s, Miss. Still not sitting next to Sherlock."

"I'll deal with you later. Fine, Anja, if you'd like to sit down next to Sherlock," Miss Cole pointed to the seat "then I'm sure you'll be very happy here. Sherlock, please be nice to Anja, it'd be really nice if you look after her for her first few days." Anja did as she was told, followed by the man from the corner, who sat next to her. "Ah! I almost forgot – class, this is Mr. Thompson. He'll be helping Anja for a while."

"Nice to meet you."

"So, where were we with our division machines?"

...

"And I've been put in charge of the new girl!" the Holmeses, sat around their dinner table, were eating pasta. Sherlock had a lot of red down his shirt, partly from where Anja had run into him at break time and mostly from the thick Napolitana sauce slathered onto the spaghetti in front of him.

"Was that wise of Miss Cole, dear?" Mrs. Holmes sat, gracefully twirling her tea around her fork.

"Mmmhhhhmmmmph!" Sherlock said, indignantly. He swallowed. "Muuuuummmmm! I can do it! But I need a German dictionary before I can help her! Please?"

"Oh, really? Well, I'll see if I can find my old one, but Sherlock if I found out that – Is that your father?"

"Probably. Go answer the door, I'll dish out his tea."

...

Sherlock stayed up all night, it seemed, just searching through the dictionary , learning how to use it. He read, and read, and eventually, his father considered that "y'know – it's really nice that Sherlock's trying so hard. Maybe he's finally becoming a kind, considerate person – like his brother."

"He was always a person. And he's basically kind." Said Mrs. Holmes sharply.

"It's very sweet of him though to look after her like this though. A little out of character."

"Point taken. Yes. I suppose it is very sweet." She smiled. "But it's eleven thirty. His light should have been out two hours ago." She left.

...

The next morning, Sherlock practically skipped into the classroom, and when he sat down next to Anja, he smiled at her and said something. She looked mildly shocked before he shook his head.

"No, no. It just means "Hallo. Mein Name ist Sherlock. Was ist ihre Name?" Anja smiled, and repeated, slowly, stumbling slightly, what Sherlock had said. She tried it a few times, before her face lit up, and with the most pleasant smile and the happiest voice in the world, she said to him

"Hello! My name is Anja. Why don't you go die in a hole somewhere?" At this, Mr. Thompson turned his head. There was a strange scene before him – a bewildered young girl, while the boy in front of her had to stop himself falling over with laughter. His blood began to boil.

"_Sherlock!"_

**I know this isn't a particularly funny chapter. I thought Sherlock had been a little too... cutesy of late, and I kind of wanted to remind myself that he did grow into a person who pointed out to a dying man that there was still time to hurt him. But what did you think?**


	9. Mycroft, fed up

**It's back! I'm so glad. Anyway, there was something in the episode which just aire (A Scandal in Begravia, one of Mycroft's lines) which made me laugh, and then made me think. I thought: "Oh. I rather think I'll have _that_."**

"For the last time, I'm not going to be an accountant!"

"You will _always_ have a job."

"But It'll always be a boring job."

"If it's not for you, that's fine. I can just… really see you doing it."

"I don't think so." Mycroft shut the book and put it down on the table. "Why is this important? Now?"

"You need to think about this. If you end up somewhere you don't like then because you didn't think now, you'll be there for the next fifty years. Seventy, by the time you get there, I expect."

"Mother."

"I'm just… looking out for you. Contrary to what you may think, I _do_ love you, Mycroft."

"…I see." Sherlock, still eight years old, had the latest copy of his periodic table unrolled on the coffee table in front of him. It had been replaced many times over the past two years, as acid ate the paper or flames licked it until all that was left was ash, but, as Sherlock said, the elements remained the same. He looked up from it now.

"Clearly, Mycroft, you need to get your affairs in order." Mycroft felt his eye twitch, involountarily.

"Oh really, Sherlock? Really, I had thought you were above petty sniping. We'll see where you are in seven years, hmmm?" Sherlock grinned, that odd lopsided smile which he wore whenever he thought he'd beaten anyone.

"Oh, I know just where I'll be, thank you." Mrs. Holmes gave her eldest son a look which crossed her face often, that of he's-only-doing-it-to-upset-you-just-let-it-slide – and as happened just as often, it was ignored.

"And where will that be?"

"_That_ is none of your business." Sherlock stood up, rolled his eyes, and made to leave. He stopped when Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes began to laugh.

"You've get a secret plan, have you?"

"Is there a problem?"

"…No." Even halfway down the hall, Sherlock could hear hastily stifled laughs.

…

"Mum?" Mrs Holmes looked up from the care label on her son's shirt.

"Darling. One question first, what on earth has happened to this shirt to get it so ripped?"

"What? Oh, that. I was fighting with Josh. Now…"

"Oh no, hold on. Fighting with Josh? Why? I thought you liked Josh!"

"Don't be silly, we were only play fighting. We had cutlasses and everything."

"A plastic cutlass did that much damage?" Sherlock sighed in exasperation.

"I don't have a plastic cutlass, and Josh doesn't either, so we had to use the bread knife. Well, I did. He got the carving knife, but it was alright. I still won. Anyway, I want to know if I can have a needle and thread. Please?" Mrs Holmes, still staring at her son, barely registered what he'd just said.

"How could you, of all people be so… so… well… _stupid_, Sherlock?" Sherlock goggled.

"Not stupid, see, we're alright. Anyway, can I have a needle and thread?"

"Oh, you're going to fix this shirt, are you?" Sherlock looked at his mum blankly.

"Yes. Absolutely." quirked an eyebrow and squinted her eyes at him, who stared angellically back.

"Whatever it's really being used for, I want it back later. Clear?

"Yes Mum." He ran off to find the sewing box.

…

Mycroft jumped as something was thrown on his head from behind him. Further inspection revealed it to be a badly made, floppy tricorn hat with a skull and crossbones stitched on to it. "Mycroft!" screeched Sherlock, grinning maniacally. "We're going to play a game!" Mycroft took the hat off his head, glaring at it.

"Not now, Sherlock. I'm busy." Sherlock snorted.

"No, you're not. You need to run around, it'll be good for you." At this point, Mycroft lost most of the patience he had had with his brother and promptly sat on the hat. Sherlock stole his jacket.

"That's mine. Give it back, Sherlock. Now." Sherlock made a sulky 'hrrrmmph' noise, amd clung to the jacket further. "Fine, fine. Just go away." He held out the now very limp hat. Gingerly, Sherlock took it off him, handed him the jacket and stalked out, muttering harmless curses under his breath. Mycroft thought he caught the world slug.

…

When Sherlock didn't come down for tea that night, his mother became intensely curious. "Sherlock?" she called, knocking on his bedroom door. "It's time for dinner, are you coming down?"

"No. Too cold." Of course, too cold. Sherlock was perpetually cold, always complaining about it and always sure he would turn into a block of ice and be discovered three thousand years later.

"Now, Sherlock. No questions!"

"I don't want to! It's not working, I'm too cold!"

"Sherlock, I'm coming in now!" Mrs Holmes pushed open the door, knocking over a carefully constructed pile of clutter. Looking around the room, she eventually saw Sherlock wrapped in his duvet, shivering. But inattentive, careless and dismissive as she may sometimes have been, that wasn't the reason Mrs. Holmes began to laugh. No. For there, sat in the middle of the lump of fabric, was Sherlock Holmes, with a floppy, felt, falling to bits deerstalker hat pulled over his ears.

"Secret plan over. Never becoming a hatmaker. Ever."

**But then I thought I might be slightly more original than that. Just slightly, mind. Back to the keyboard ladies, gentlemen and variations thereof.**


	10. Emotional hardship, hard to understand

**This entire fic is still set in 1986. Just so you know.**

The Holmes household was in a state of panic. Mycroft, of all people, was cleaning. Sherlock, lying on the sofa bundled into his dressing gown, watched bemusedly as his brother dragged a mop out of the alcove in which the family hung their coats.

"You're only going to knock my coat on to the floor if you pull it out at that angle." He said, sourly. Mycroft glared at him.

"Rather yours than Mummy's." This time, it was Sherlock's turn to look displeased. He struck back in the way he knew would upset his brother most.

"So who is it this time? Is it Alice? Or did you dump her after you found out she was seeing that French bloke?" There was a horrible, horrible pause and Mycroft looked like he might be about to punch Sherlock.

"He was Spanish," he said, icily, "and no."

"Oh? Who is it this week, then?" Mycroft's fingers curled up then uncurled themselves.

"Zoe. Go upstairs. Now."

"Mycroft, you're not my mother. No."

"I'll sit on you." Sherlock assessed the figure in front of him.

"While that would be incredibly painful, just because it's you – no. Anyway, you're not done yet." Eventually, when Mycroft finished with the mop and the floor was once again dry, he poked Sherlock, only once, in his side, just under his ribs and took great pleasure in watching him squirm into a contorted shape so quickly he fell of the sofa, and remained on the floor to sulk. And then Mycroft picked up the furniture polish, because really, he knew his brother was right and there was still plenty more to do.

…

"Ow!" It was now many hours later. Mycroft had cleaned the living room to his satisfaction and moved on to the hall and staircase. Sherlock, however, was still lying in the middle of the living room floor and his father tripping over him and accidentally kicking his stomach had _hurt._

"Jesus Christ! Oh my god, sorry Sherlock. What are you doing down there?" Sherlock glared back.

"I'm not moving." He said, flatly.

"Yes you are. You're in the most inconvenient place you could possibly be, so you are moving."

"I think it would be less convenient if I were in the middle of Belfast. Or Rio, or Ukraine. Especially Ukraine."

"Nevertheless Sherlock, you are in the middle of the gangway. Also, it's five in the afternoon and you're still in your dressing gown. Go and get dressed."

"Ugh, dull. And no point, I'm going to bed in four hours."

"Sherlock."

"No."

"Right." And it was at this point that Mr. Holmes picked Sherlock up bodily and carried his protesting, squealing son up the stairs before unceremoniously putting him down in his bedroom. "And I don't want to see you again until you're dressed. Understood?"

"Yes, dad." Sherlock sat in the middle of the floor looking stubborn and waited until half an hour after his father had left before eyeing the chest of drawers which contained his jeans.

…

"Soooo… where are we going?"

"Ah, it's a surprise." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"Roller rink. Obviously."

"Really? Oh wow, I haven't been roller skating since I was really little! That's so cute." Mycroft glared his brother who was rolling his eyes behind the girl now stood in the spot he'd been laying on two hours ago.

"We're not booked in for another half hour though, so can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, orange juice?"

"Tea, thanks. White, one sugar." Mycroft wandered in the direction of the kitchen. Sherlock surveyed the girl now sat on the couch.

"I think you should have kept your coat on, actually." He said.

"What?"

"Your shoulder pads make your head look really small. Even with the hair. And the trousers aren't a good shape for you either." He looked her critically once again. "Also your iron was too hot." Zoe gasped.

"How on earth do you know that?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You've got an iron shaped burn on the back of your shirt. I couldn't see it with the coat on." He grinned. Zoe was by now bright red as she hastened to grab her coat from the hook Mycroft had put it on. He came back in now, and handed his date a mug.

"Calm down, he's making it up. There's not a burn on your back at all, Sherlock's just being stupid, _aren't you_?" Zoe looked unconvinced.

"But I did have the iron too high, he was right." Sherlock snorted.

"Of course I was. Pressure marks from the dial on your fingers." There was an awkward pause.

"Let's just go. Behave, Sherlock, we'll be back around nine. Bye!" The two left in a hurry, still with twenty five minutes before they were due to pick up their skates and leaving behind Zoe's scarf and Mycroft's left sock, which he'd been about to put on when the doorbell rang. Sherlock, still lying on the sofa, picked up his dressing gown and switched on the telly.

…

When Mycroft came back, Sherlock was arguing with Mrs. Holmes about his bedtime, rather loudly, but when Mycroft walked in both stopped their argument to let him collapse into a chair before his legs gave out. Sherlock was quiet for once before giving and almost unnoticeable smirk.

"I knew one of them was seeing someone else who was French. Is she coming back?" Mycroft kept his eyes on the floor.

"No." He said hoarsely. Sherlock's smirk became something much more visible as he stood up.

"Excellent." He said, before moving towards the door, stopping only to pull the abandoned blue scarf from its hook before going upstairs to find his pyjamas.

**It's been a week and I'm still sad.**


	11. Boredom, what to do with it

**No idea where this one's going, so bear with me and we'll go with the flow. **

"Look at it. Look at the eyes. It's _ugly._ How do you not see why I'm scared of it?"

"Sherlock , it's _the_ _very hungry caterpillar_." Miss Cole, Sherlock's teacher, was mystified as to why the boy she thought would offer the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse a cup of tea before informing them of their mother's psychological condition was currently cowering under the table at the sight of a children's book.

"Look at the eyes! Yellow rimmed… staring. Ugh." He shivered. Miss Cole decided to change tack.

"You're not afraid of a book like that are you? It's for _very_ young children. Come on Sherlock, you aren't scared of that, are you?" While she was trying to be as sweet as she could, Herman snorted.

"You're such a _baby_, Sherlock Holmes." He said bending down so all Sherlock could see was his upside down face Sherlock might have punched him if Anja, who somehow had forgiven Sherlock for what he'd done, even found it funny eventually, pulled him out the way roughly by his collar. But it was enough. Herman's goading convinced Sherlock to crawl gingerly out from under the table and, after giving Anja a courteous nod, sat down mutely on the carpet with his legs neatly crossed. Miss Cole smiled.

"In the light of the moon a little egg lay on a leaf. Yes, Emma?"

"Could you scramble it?"

"Oh no, it's too small for that. Smaller than the thumbnail on your little finger. One Sunday morning, the warm sun came up…"

…

"Arrrgh! Oh yuck, that's bloody _disgusting_."

"You're such a _baby, _Herman Carter."

"I'm going to kill you."

…

Mrs. Holmes was not impressed. "Sherlock." She said. "Room. Now. You have no idea how disappointed I am in you. Do you know how ill eating that Caterpillar might have made Herman?" Sherlock smirked.

"Yes. But he didn't eat it, did he?" There was pause before Mrs. Holmes, temporarily lost for words gave her son a thick ear.

"And fighting! What did I tell you about biting? Don't you dare come down until I call you, do you understand?"

"Yes Mummy." Sherlock began to trudge upstairs, shoulders shaking.

"And don't you dare laugh, Sherlock Holmes. Frankly I'm ashamed." There was a pause while Sherlock fought back giggles.

"No Mummy."

"I mean it."

"I know, Mummy." The door behind Sherlock slammed hard. Collapsing into the swivel chair behind his desk he blew his fringe out of his eyes – _needs cutting again. Deep joy. _– Spun around – _dizzy. Can't see properly - _and promptly moved off the chair onto his much softer, more stable bed, staring at the plain, dark blue ceiling in his room.

Later, after dinner, Mycroft was out, Sherlock was still in his room (having been denied his tea) and the Holmes parents were sat in the living room, watching Taggart wander around a corpse in Maryhill. There was a thud from upstairs and Mr. Holmes looked at his wife.

"Do you think he's hurt himself?" Mrs. Holmes shook her head.

"No, I think he's found a plastic sword and he's waving it around like a lunatic at either aliens or the navy. Sometimes I don't think he sees a difference, Star Wars saw to that. Let him be."

…

The bathroom was a state, Mrs. Holmes discovered when she went upstairs to run a bath. The side of the bath which wasn't attached to a wall had been taken out, to show the small grubby space underneath where the family kept those things which seemed useless but you just held onto in any case – half full cans of paint (white, yellow and orange), half empty tubes of grouting, half tiles and carpet swatches covered the floor. She groaned inwardly at the mess because the alcove was also the home of the family's largest collection of dust – or had been, anyway. Now, the title was extended to the whole bathroom. Dust covered the walls, the floor, the showerhead and inside the bath. Resolving to have _words _with her youngest son later, she closed the door again and went off in search of the hoover.

…

When Mycroft came home, Mis Holmes was sat back on the sofa in her nightie, this time reading. "Mum, have you seen my astronomy book? I thought I put it on the table on the upstairs landing."

"Hmm? No, I don't think so. I know the one you mean, though. How odd – did you try under that tip you call a bed?"

"Oh, ha ha. Yeah, I looked everywhere but I still can't find it. I bet Sherlock's got it, can I go ask?" Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes.

"If you must. Try to be quick though, he's still technically in trouble." Mycroft nodded before heading upstairs to his brother's room and knocking on the door.

"Sherlock?" Silence. "Sherlock, I'm coming in. If you're doing something stupid, stop now, because I'm coming in. D'you hear?" Sherlock was still quiet, so eventually Mycroft had to turn the handle and force the door open on his brother's room, causing an indignant screech from Sherlock.

"_MYCROFT!_ That was my cocoa, it's all over the floor! You've _ruined it_, I could kill you, find a cloth! Now!"

"Cocoa? Sherlock, it's _solid_. And _blue._ And – Sherlock? What are you doing? Is that my book?" Sherlock had the good grace to at least look slightly sheepish.

"It wasn't stealing. You just left it out on the table. And I was going to give it back."

"No, you weren't."

"No, I wasn't. Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not. I'll keep it a bit longer, actually."

"Sherlock, I think it's time you went to bed, actually. It's half past ten, you should have been in bed an hour and a half ago."

"Mycroft, you're not my mother, remember? Besides, I'm not done." Mycroft gritted his teeth.

"You could at least get down off the ladder."

"What ladder?"

"Nice try, Sherlock. The one you're stood on." Mycroft picked him up, pointed to the ladder and handed Sherlock what looked to be the nearest clean pair of pyjamas.

"But I'm not done! " Mycroft looked up at the ceiling. Painted across it was a planned out, correct representation of the night sky as seen from Sherlock's window.

"That'll take hours. Sherlock, what were you thinking?" Sherlock shrugged.

"I was bored."

**Another chapter, another afternoon filled. 'Til next time!**


	12. Furniture, too much trouble

**I've been refurnishing. Thought I'd put Sherlock through the same torture.**

Mrs. Holmes raised an eyebrow at her two sons, sat opposite her at the table. Mycroft, whose hand was now sporting a purpling set of tooth marks Mrs. Holmes was fairly sure Sherlock's gnasher's would fit into perfectly, was not impressed. "Honestly, you're like savages, both of you! Sherlock, you never bite anyone, _ever_. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Mummy."

"Go to your room. I'll speak to your father when he gets home." Sherlock left, sulky and stubborn to the last. Mrs. Holmes looked at her eldest. "Frankly, Mycroft, I'm shocked. I'd have thought you were the last person to punch anyone, least of all Sherlock. I hope you're happy with yourself. You upstairs too, apologise, and don't let me see you until you and your brother are reconciled. Now go." Without a word, Mycroft nodded and wandered through the living room, then the hall and eventually up the stairs to Sherlock's room.

"Sherlock? Mum says that we need to – arrghh!" There was a loud thump as he hit the floor, landing awkwardly on his weak wrist, which broke with a horrible noise. Sherlock, who'd been sat on the other side of the futon bed Mycroft had tripped over, was upon him instantly.

"Wow! It's all sticking out! That's interesting. Mycroft, can I poke it? Please? What if I bend it back? Is it floppy? Mycroft! "

"Don't touch it! Go and get Mummy to drive me to the hospital."

"You're so _practical_." Whinged Sherlock, toddling off to find her.

…

"I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner, now I think about it." Said Mrs Holmes later that evening as she explained the whole sorry tale to her husband. He was sat on the armchair, simultaneously reading the Haynes manual balanced on his lap and listening to his wife. Mycroft sat on the couch, sins forgiven and new white cast adorning his arm. Adorning that were scribblings in bright green pen, untidy handwriting which might have said _Dear Mycroft, you're far too boring. Love, Sherlock x_. The scribe himself lay on the floor, legs up against the edge of the sofa cushions and his arms tracing shapes in the air, the meanings of which were best known to himself. Mrs. Holmes continued. "You need a new bed Sherlock, no two ways about it. We'll go to DFS on Saturday and find something more practical."

"There's nothing wrong with my bed, Mycroft's just clumsy."

"I've basically got a hammer for a forearm, watch your mouth."

"Now, now, brother dear…"

"Sherlock, Mycroft… stop scoring points." Mr Holmes said warningly from behind the burgundy book he was scrutinizing.

"You were saying just the other day how uncomfortable your futon was, what are you talking about?"

"I miss my bed with the ladder, what was wrong with that one?"

"You know fine well what was wrong with that bed, Sherlock. Don't tell me you've forgotten, no one could forget that."

"I said I was sorry."

"And I'm saying you can't sleep in that bed now. No, DFS it is."

"Yes Mummy."

…

The local branch of Direct Furnishing Supplies might have been having a noisy toddler morning. Sherlock was distinctly irritated as he vocalised his hypothesis to his mother. More likely however, was that Mrs. Holmes and her son were in the children's bed section, which Sherlock, already tall for his age, was beginning to outgrow. Heading into adult beds, the loudest things soon became the notices up everywhere of the latest sale. Sherlock looked at them critically.

"That sale is not going to end on Wednesday. There is _never _a time DFS doesn't have a sale on."

"Try not to be critical, Sherlock. How about this one?"

"Not that one, some three year old's kicked in the internal supports."

"Well, obviously not that one _exactly_…"

"Still no. I don't like it."

"Ok, ok. This one?"

"Will fall apart in three years, max. Just let me look."

…

"That man's being blackmailed."

"Not now, Sherlock. How's this?"

"Green."

"It says it's available in other colours."

"Pink."

"And blue."

"My room is orange. No blue."

"Blue hot chocolate."

"Doesn't count, not furniture."

"The amount of time it sat in there it might as well have been."

"It was in a red mug. I don't mind red."

…

"Badly made."

"Will ruin the carpet."

"Boring."

"I'll bash my head."

"It looks like a frog."

"Too short, Mycroft will just trip over it again."

"Not short, but not tall enough. If it's going to be tall, it needs a ladder… what?... fine."

…

Four hours later, when Mrs. Holmes' feet were getting tired in her cherry red, patent heels, she wandered up to her son and asked him to pick. He considered for a second.

"That one." He said, pointing to a plain bedframe, not dissimilar to the kind found in hospital rooms.

"But Sherlock… that looks like it's meant for hospitals."

"I know, I think I spend more time in hospital beds than the one at home. Do you want to buy it and go home to rest your feet or can I go on looking?" There was pause.

"That was rude, Sherlock."

"Sorry, Mum. Are we getting that one?"

"I suppose." She and Sherlock sat down with the sales rep, discussing prices, colours and delivery times. Or Mrs. Holmes and the Rep did, Sherlock was cut out of the conversation and with little else to do began to fiddle with his shoelaces. After what seemed like half an hour to him, but in actuality was only ten minutes, there was a crash and a scream from the children's section, which no member of staff seemed to be attending to. The Rep looked up from his sheets of paper.

"I'm terribly sorry, if you could excuse me for just one minute…" he said, dashing off to see what the catastrophe was. Sherlock picked up the papers off the desk and began reading them. Mrs. Holmes, distracted by the living room suites, was paying him no attention. Perhaps she should have been.

…

On Monday evening, while Mycroft was in his room doing homework, Sherlock was reading a heavy book with a leather cover and Mrs. Holmes was still at work, Mr Holmes was covered in oil under the car so he didn't see the delivery tuck until it very nearly ran his legs over. Luckily, it stopped on the pavement with the back wheels twelve centimetres from his shins. Sliding back out onto the pavement, ready to give the driver a piece of his mind, he found himself face to face with a large man and a clip board.

"Mr Peter 'olmes?"

"Yes."

"Sign 'ere." Pete took the pen, signed the box on the sheet and watched as the men began unloading the van.

"That's a lot of stuff to make up one bed." He said, as they pulled out the seventh bag of flat packed furniture.

"And a three piece suite as well, don't forget. That's quite a bit."

"A three piece…?"

"On the order form, right 'ere, see?"

"One minute." Mr. Holmes dashed to the open doorway of the house.

"_SHERLOCK!"_ Sherlock's head tilted back from its position on the stairs.

"Yes?"

"A three piece suite. Did you have anything to do with this?"

"Mummy liked it. Can we keep it?"

"We'll see."

**Ahhh, it's fluffy. Maybe.**


	13. Beaches, in the snow

**It's Good Friday and that means everything's shut, so I thought: _Do you know what I haven't done in a while? Cake._ So I went to the shop to buy flour but then I realised I had no money, and well, like I said everything's shut, so I was all: _Next best thing, then._**

"For goodness sake, Tim, there's no way I can get in today… Yes, I know it's bizarre… snow in April, it's all over our front drive, the roads are blocked… who'd have thought? No, I can't… really. I'm sorry, I have to go." Mr. Holmes put down the phone and, standing on a chair, lifted down his son from his precarious perch on top of the bookshelf.

"I was going to jump. I could have made it!"

"You could have done, but more likely you'd have caught your dressing down cord around your ankle and landed awkwardly and that would be a pain because there'd be two broken bones in the house. I take it school is cancelled today?"

"Probably. Honestly, ten centimetres of snow and the entire country shuts down, they're all so lazy!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Even lazier than Mycroft, which –" He faltered in the face of his father's quirked eyebrow. Admittedly, his appearance wasn't backing him up – he had yet to comb his hair, the pyjamas he was still wearing were mismatched and the trousers too short, his dressing gown in need of washing and undone. "… Don't look at me like that."

"You're such a hypocrite, Sherlock." Said Mr. Holmes, as his son rebundled himself back into his filthy dressing gown and formed a cocoon on the sofa. Mrs Holmes walked in, brushing her dark curls.

"Sherlock, there's some toast on the table for you, with jam, just the way you like it." Sherlock got up to hug his mother, who held him at arm's length with a look of disapproval on her face. "Give me that dressing gown too, it's disgusting… oh for goodness sake. Eat your breakfast and then go and get dressed."

"Yes, mummy. MYCROFT! Go and get dressed now!"

"Sherlock, it's not your job to tell Mycroft what to do." Said Mrs. Holmes, as Mycroft's head peered around the top of the stairs. It did not look happy.

"Shut up, Sherlock." He said.

"Mycroft, that was rude." Mrs. Holmes shot back.

"You just said it wasn't his job yourself!" Mrs. Holmes gritted her teeth and sighed through them as her husband poked his head though the top of the sweater he was putting on and glared at his sons.

"Enough! Get dressed the both of you and get in the car. We're going out!"

"But Daaaaad…"

"_Sherlock_. Now. " Both brothers began to trudge up the stairs while Mrs. Holmes plucked the dressing gown off the floor where Sherlock had unceremoniously hurled it before sinking into the sofa. Her husband looked at her sidelong, gave her a quick kiss on the forehead before pulling the dressing gown out of her hands and pushing it into the still open washing machine. "You sit back today and I'll take out the boys. Sound good?" Mrs. Holmes nodded weakly.

"Mmm. Thank you." Sherlock, now in a jumper jeans and what appeared to be three pairs of socks (none of which matched) tugged his coat off the hanger on which he had carelessly slung it and tried to pull on a pair of boots.

"I need new shoes. These don't fit." He said, tugging on the top of them.

"Try taking off a pair of socks. You knew that."

"I did. Ok." Mycroft arrived somewhat later, sidling into the car with a lack of complaint unrivalled by his younger brother.

"Where are we going anyway?"

"Uuuuuummm… The beach."

"What!"

"You heard me.

"But it's snowing!"

"We'll get hypothermia!"

"Sherlock, we'll just get cold."

""Didn't you say you couldn't get into work in the car? And I haven't got my swimming stuff."

"Anyone would think you wanted hypothermia."

"The hospital probably wouldn't be upset to see him actually unconscious for once. Quieter ."

"They saw that last weekend, remember? And I hate you. Both of you."

…

"I can't believe you thought the beach was a good idea. It's _freezing_."

"Fish won't be freezing. Come on, play along."

"I don't feel like fish and chips. I feel like I need a thicker coat."

"Well, I'm hungry. Let's go get fish and chips."

"Mycroft, you're always hungry."

"Like now."

"I'm still cold…"

"It'll be warm inside the shop." By now, Mr. Holmes had his son's hand and was quietly pulling him towards the nearest stinking chip shop. Eventually, they say sat down on the bench outside, taking it in turns to pass the bag of grease between them. Or they had been, anyway. Mycroft went to pass the bag to his left and found nothing but air to receive it.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Mycroft?"

"Can you see Sherlock?" Mr. Holmes looked around.

"No, come to think of it. Did he say anything?"

"No. At least, I don't think so." Casually, the two cast their eyes around the pier. Sherlock was nowhere in sight – the promenade, nearby shops and beach proved empty. Now stood on the stand, the two slowly cast their eyes towards the sea. Mycroft looked back to his father, who was still scanning the sand, on which a small set of footprints could be seen. "You don't think he'd…?"

"Nah, god knows, he's not a stupid child." There was cough behind them and both turned around.

"I'm not stupid, well done Dad. Please don't step on my hand, I don't want broken fingers, Mycroft might try to be witty on my cast." Sherlock was completely buried in the sand, his eyelids and mouth covered in grit.

"And I'd do a better job of what you did, too." Said Mycroft, after a moment of staring. Between them, he and Mr. Holmes hauled Sherlock out the sand before sluicing him off in the sea, bubdling him into the car and heading for home.

…

"I am a camouflage genius." Sherlock proclaimed at dinner that evening.

"That's nice, dear, you can add it to the list."

"I mean it this time, Dad and Mycroft didn't see me until I choked on the sand. If I hadn't done that they might have left me at the beach for_ever_. And then what would you do?"

"Actually get to eat the custard creams before they're all gone?"

"Mycroft, if you eat anymore custard creams you will explode and I expect I'll have to clean it up."

"Sherlock, you never clean anything in this house. Even the dust mites in your room suffer from asthma because their lungs are so messed up."

"I do so clean! I did the whole bathroom last weekend." Mr. Holmes cut in once again, tiredly.

"And you used so much bleach that you fainted and we had to take you to the hospital, remember? Honestly, it's a wonder the social services let us keep you."

"Sometimes I think you wonder why they don't just take us away already."

"Same thing. Sherlock, no matter how much brown sauce you put on your hand it is never going to match the table exactly. Stop that."

**Wow, I lack inspiration. Incidentally, when I say chips I mean what the British call chips. Fish and chips is traditional beach food.**


	14. Tents, in the sun

**I should be revising. Bleeeeh.**

Mr. Holmes was on the phone again. "It's crazy, isn't it? Just two weeks ago the roads are too icy and now you could swim in the tar! No, not literally... of course I can come in to work... Yes Dave. I'm just finishing my toast; I'll be in at usual time... see you, then." He hung up before realising that where there had before been half a slice of warm, buttery toast there now sat a Sherlock in the exact same spot on the kitchen worktop, a jam covered knife in one hand and crumbs adorning his fingers and the corners of his mouth. He was kicking the back of his feet against the cupboard and although Mr. Holmes realised he had heard the noise while on the phone, at the time it hadn't seemed so important. Clipping him sharply across the ear, father lifted son down and set him down on the floor. "Arms up!" he commanded. Sherlock did so as his school sweater was plucked off the clean laundry heap and shoved over his head. There was a crackle of static before his head popped up again, hair on end, and he grabbed his bag and rushed out the door before his father could think of a more suitable punishment for stolen toast.

As the door shut behind him and he wrestled his sweatshirt off again, tying it firmly around his waist, Sherlock began to race down the road, imaginary enemy spies flying in every direction as he hit them with the back of as rifle. He was in the depths of India, Australia, the Sahara desert and if he could just get around the corner to the school in time to deliver the codes all would be we-

"Sherlock!" He turned his head and groaned loudly. Anja was running towards him, her satchel hitting her hip loudly and shattering anything there may have been left of the illusion. She stopped a few feet short. "Sherlock, has it been raining? I have not noticed rain."

"It's not been raining. Why?"

"You're all wet. Have you taken a shower?" Sherlock almost laughed. Sweat from the running and heat, he guessed, must be drenching his face, shirt and hair and his suspicions were confirmed by Gary, a boy in the class above.

"'Course he hasn't. Christ Sherlock, do you even know what a shower is? Or is that just useless information?"

"Would you consider your older sister's biker boyfriend useless information?"

"…what?"

"Doesn't matter, I'm sure you don't care, worm that you are." And with that he was running once again, Gary hot on his heels. Luckily, Sherlock was faster and just made it inside his classroom before he lost his head. Smiling innocently at Miss Cole, he slowed his pace until eventually he was sauntering towards his seat next to the radiator. Herman quietly turned it on full blast.

…

"I'm so _hot_" Whinged Sherlock, as his bag his the floor. Mycroft, from the sofa, gave him a sidelong glance and half a smirk.

"Don't get full of yourself, now." He said as Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"No doubt you think you're hilarious." He said, picking up a broom from the alcove where coats were kept and pointing it at his brother. "Come on, Mycroft, we're going out." Unthreatened, Mycroft did not budge.

"Out where?" he said, flatly. There was a pause while Sherlock worked this out for himself.

"The garden. We're going to put the tent up." Before Mycroft could protest, Sherlock had levered the handle of the broom behind his brother and was now poking it between Mycroft's two shoulder blades, steering his half yelping, half laughing brother down the garden to the ramshackle shed where large family tent was kept. Not that they ever used it anymore, because either Sherlock or the weather ruined camping trips every time, but right now Mycroft was feeling indulgent.

However, the shed was also where the recliners were kept and as he strung together the tenth tent pole and Sherlock (not even looking at the instructions, which were now closed and balanced on his head) shouted at him he was doing it wrong for the tenth time, Mycroft began to wish he had had his brother's foresight to pick one up and sit on it all afternoon. Finally, after Sherlock had been pulled off the recliner by his sheer unwillingness to watch Mycroft any longer, and Mycroft had explained to him exactly why he couldn't use the tent poles as lightsaber substitutes, the two fetched their sleeping bags and an air mattress each to drag into the tent and sit on while they ate the sandwiches they had convinced Mrs. Holmes to give them for tea.

"Mummy was right, maybe cucumber sandwiches was a bad nutritional choice." Sherlock said later that evening. Mycroft snorted.

"If you're hungry, go get something else to eat from the kitchen." He said. A brainwave struck. "But don't let the fire ogre get you." Sherlock glared through the darkness and Mycroft could just make out a pair of bright, narrowed eyes.

"That was pathetic." Said Sherlock, turning on his heel to leave.

"I'm serious," Said Mycroft "Dom's sister thought he was joking and when they found her bones all covered in blood and charred black it was too late."

"Ha ha. I'm not scared of bones. Or ghosts." Sherlock stalked out, pausing only to throw out a fat slug which had made its way into the tent before he headed towards the kitchen.

…

Fishing around inside the provisions box for a sachet of porridge or a small pack of cornflakes – or even better a pouch of instant coffee, much more readily available now his parents had gone to bed, Sherlock casually glanced out the window. _It really is very dark, _he thought to himself._ So why can't I sleep? I'll just grab a torch and a book to read._ He wandered over to the bookshelf in the living room and picked up the nearest fiction book and the torch on the table before heading back to the tent.

…

_And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting_

_On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;_

_And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,_

_And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;_

_And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor_

_Shall be lifted — nevermore!_

Sherlock closed the book. _Perhaps a poetry anthology was a bad idea,_ he thought. _On the other hand, bored now. Might sleep. _ And so, it seemed, he was going to. But as he was drifting into the pink world of clouds and calm, the harsh cawing of a bird broke the silence and his eyes snapped open. _It's just a bird, Sherlock_, said the voice in his head in a dead on Mycroft impression. _Go to sleep._ All the same Sherlock felt considerably colder than he should have done. As the wind rustled through the leaves Sherlock considered how unwindy the preceding day had been. Was it really just the wind? It had to be. _Stop it, _Said his brain, bluntly. Sliding his hand under his mattress, Sherlock found the handle of the knife and slowly stepped over his sleeping brother once more, out into the night.

…

The garden had been empty. The streets of the suburb in which they lived had been empty, although all the streetlamps had been working. Both a blessing and a curse because although he was less terrified as he wandered through the streets (still in his pyjamas) now he had decided all was well and was picking his way back to the tent through the unlit garden he couldn't see a thing. Which made the nasty shock he received so much worse when it came.

…

Mycroft was woken by a horrible, disgusted scream from his brother. He could hear him calling now.

"Mycroft! Mycroft!" Clambering out of bed, he found the torch Sherlock had (foolishly) left by his bed and headed out into the garden to find him. It didn't take long. Swiftly he scooped him up and headed into the well lit house. When they arrived Sherlock's face was still bright red as Mycroft set him down upon the kitchen cabinets he loved to sit on. Before he could start reflexively banging his heels against the cupboards underneath, though, Mycroft had bent down to catch his toes. He managed it, but not for long.

"Uuughhh!" He drew his hands away from his brother. "Sherlock, what's this?" Sherlock inspected his foot.

"Slug, I think. Shouldn't have thrown it out the tent, I knew I stepped on something… Mycroft! Fetch my tweezers and the microscope slides!" Mycroft stared at him incredulously.

"I think not. Come on Sherlock, let's go run you a bath. Or a shower. You do know what shower is, right?" Sherlock, with no warning, punched him on the first spot he could reach (incidentally, the top of the arm) as hard as he could. Mycroft didn't complain as he picked up his brother once again, carted him upstairs and stuffed him into the bath tub. In fact, the only once complaining was Sherlock, when Mycroft chose to turn on the cold tap.

**D'aaw. Hopefully :) **


End file.
